


The Spilled Tea

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Series: ACD Fics [31]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst and Feels, Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Melancholy, Murder, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26117935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: A case strikes close to home
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: ACD Fics [31]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1368016
Comments: 22
Kudos: 107





	The Spilled Tea

I stood back and watched as Holmes inspected the kitchen tiles. I could hardly see why such a thing was important to the case at hand, but I also was well aware of my friend's abilities.

"Our murderer was shaken by what they'd done and they fixed themselves a cup of tea," he said. "The crime was an act of passion, not premeditated." he pronounced.

Lestrade shifted his feet, notebook in hand. "So who was it?" he asked.

"Not the poor maid your people arrested yesterday," said Holmes with a tone of reproach.

"She seemed the most likely," said Lestrade, bristling.

"People always do like to blame the servants, don't they?" said Holmes. "No, she was telling the truth about how she found the body when she came in to work. It was the widower's son."

"Why on earth would he kill his own father?" asked Lestrade.

Holmes cast a glance at me. "Perhaps you'd be better off asking him. I suspect he'll confess under the slightest pressure."

Lestrade frowned. "I'll have him brought in for questioning."

"Which you should have done in the first place," said Holmes, turning away from him. "I'm going to take one last look around the room upstairs. Watson?"

I nodded and hurried after him, leaving Lestrade in the kitchen. 

We climbed the narrow stairs and went down the hall, though we did not stop in the study where the body had been found, but instead proceeded to the man's bedroom. "Stand by the door," said Holmes quietly, going to the man's wardrobe.

I obeyed without question, wondering as he opened it. He must have found what he was looking for, because I heard a drawer opening and some rustling, then he was quickly closing the wardrobe again, everything back where it belonged.

Holmes did step into the study and take one cursory look around before going downstairs again. "We're going home, Lestrade," he called as he passed the kitchen.

Lestrade waved us off and we left the tidy little house, catching a hansom back to Baker Street. Holmes kept his silence and I gave him his space, knowing all would be revealed once we were alone somewhere safe.

A small lunch was waiting for us when we got to the top of the stairs. I hung up my coat and hat and went to it. Holmes did the same, taking a small bundle of letters from his jacket pocket as he hung it up. He looked at them for a moment, then consigned them to the fire.

"Holmes?" I asked, seeing melancholy in his eyes.

"The father had an affair with another man. The son found out and he killed him in a fit of rage and fear. Those letters were the proof. I couldn't chance them falling into the wrong hands."

I nodded, looking at the words turning to ash in our fire. Holmes sat down heavily across from me and I reached over to cover his hand with my own.

He looked up and gave me a soft, sad smile. 

I leaned over to kiss him gently. "Eat something," I said.

He picked up his fork. The mood was somber and quiet as we ate. I didn't know how Holmes had known where to look or how he'd pieced it together, but in this case I didn't need to. A man was dead for the crime of seeking comfort with someone his own child couldn't approve of.

I knew that we lived dangerous lives, and that, while we were safe enough here, the threat was always hanging over us. It was why I had invented the fiction of a wife for myself in the stories I'd published. But I wouldn't trade what we had for any illusion.

When we finished eating, I went to the door and locked it, then came back and took his hand. "Come lay down," I said gently. He always took these sorts of cases hard and I knew why. While I did, on occasion, harbor some affection for the fairer sex, Holmes never had. He'd always had to live with the knowledge and fear of what he was, even before our relationship took such a turn. It was cruel, what the world did to men like him. I sometimes wondered how much good the world had lost when it had decided that to love was a crime.

We retired to his bedroom, the one we most often shared, getting out of shoes and outer layers before settling down. He lay his head on my chest, fiddling with the buttons on my shirt.

I wanted to swear oaths to him, to promise that I would always keep him safe, that I would guard his body and his heart with the last of my strength. But I knew full well that such promises might be futile, that one day we might be caught out with no recourse. I liked to think that if we were, then perhaps Lestrade and the Yarders would help us, but then again, they were the law. Whether they wanted to or agreed with the Crown, there might be little they could do.

Instead, I ran fingers through his hair, trying to reassure him with a touch. He sighed and raised his head, kissing me gently. "I am glad for you," he said quietly; a rare confession, though I knew the truth of it.

"And I, you," I answered, cupping his cheek and giving him a gentle smile.

He settled back on my chest. I held him close, doing what I could to hold the darkness at bay.


End file.
